over the Chateau, the French police must be looking for an Englishman with a glass eye, and even if they'd had the revolvers to put back the forensic experts could easily match them with the bullet that had killed Professor Botwyk. Finally, what made it insane to imagine they could resume their old lives or pretend they'd never been to France was what the Countess had said; whoever had set them up would undoubtedly drop the word to the police. After all, it would pay the bastard to. He hadn't killed anyone and they had, and it would get him off the hook. And only the Countess could save their necks if she chose.
So Glodstone had driven to London, had changed his travellers' cheques and, leaving the Bentley with a reputable dealer in vintage cars with orders to sell as soon as he received the registration and licence papers, had caught the train to Margate. Peregrine had travelled in a separate carriage and he'd found himself a room in a guest-house. Glodstone spent half an hour changing and shaving in a public lavatory and had booked into the first Two-Star hotel to have a spare room. He hadn't been out since. Instead, he had hung about the bar, had watched the news on TV and had read the latest report in the papers of the terrorist attack in France. But for the most part he had stayed in his room in an abyss of self-pity and terror. Life couldn't be like this. He wasn't a criminal; he'd always detested murderers and terrorists; the police were always right and they should never have stopped hanging. All that was changed and he was particularly grateful that capital punishment had been abolished in France. He'd lost faith in the police too. It had been all very well to talk about going outside the law but now that he was there he knew no self-respecting policeman who would believe his story and if he did it would make not the slightest difference. And being inside meant just that. Whatever some damn fool poet had said about stone walls and iron bars, Glodstone knew better. They made prisons, and French ones at that. He'd never have a chance to urge his House on at rugger or knock a ball about in the nets again and the train-set in the basement...He'd be known as Glodstone the Murderer and go down in the school infamy as Groxbourne's equivalent of Dr Crippen. And how Slymne would gloat...He was just plumbing this new hell when the phone rang beside his bed.
Glodstone picked it up and listened to a now familiar voice.
'My, my, brother John, it's just taken me for ages to reach you.'
'Yes, well, the thing was...' Glodstone began before the Countess cut him short. She was thinking about girls on switchboards.
'I'm down by the pier so meet me there in five minutes and we'll have ourselves some lunch. Alone.'
'Yes,' said Glodstone. The phone went dead. With as much nonchalance as he could muster, he walked downstairs and out into the sunshine. The promenade was crowded with the sort of people he would normally have avoided at all costs, but today he was grateful for their presence. The Countess had known what she was doing when she had picked on Margate. All the same, he approached the pier cautiously, horribly conscious that he might be walking into a trap.
But the Countess was sitting on a bench and rose as he came up. 'Darling,' she said to his surprise, and put her arm through his. 'Gee, it's just marvellous to see you again.'
She dragged him across the road and down a side street to a car. 'Where's Peregrine?' she asked as they got in.
'In the amusement park probably, shooting things,' said Glodstone. 'It's called Dreamland.'
'Appropriately,' said the Countess. 'Right, so that's where he stays temporarily while I debrief you.'
'Debrief me?' said Glodstone, uncertain after that 'Darling' how to interpret the word.
'Like with astronauts, and guys that have been taken prisoner. Somewhere along the line there's got to be a connection.'
'Between what?' said Glodstone more confused than ever.
'Between you and me. Mister Letter-Writer. Someone who wanted to screw us both and succeeded.
